


Looking Through the Glass (Watch It Break)

by arrowinthesky (restfulsky5)



Series: Of men and gods [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Amish, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Disabled Character, Family Feels, Family Issues, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 21:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20234857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restfulsky5/pseuds/arrowinthesky
Summary: By the time Clark figured it out, another two months had passed since he’d seen Bruce. Too long, with Dick’s health on the line.He had to bring Bruce and the boys back to NYC, and there was only person who could take that step and get Bruce’s attention. One person who could reach deep into that tortured mind and convince him he needed to come home. One person who could get under Bruce’s skin and kindle that fire he knew was burning still. That person?Wasn’t Clark.It was a man who was as stubborn as his father. Bruce’s second son.Jason.





	Looking Through the Glass (Watch It Break)

“So, looks like you made it.”

Jason’s hand stilled midair, and the creamer he didn’t want on second thought poured into his coffee. “Shit, Kent.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. You’ve always walked twice as fast as everyone else. Heard you’ll make lieutenant in record time.”

Can’t say he was surprised Kent found his way through gossip before finding him. “Yeah?” Without looking at Kent, he slammed the pitcher down. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

“I always expected you would, before...things happened.”

He scowled at his miserable cup of coffee, fumbling as he secured the lid. “How’d you find me?”

“Well, I—”

“—called Babs, didn’t you?” She was the only one who knew where he was—who he was. The traitor.

Kent offered him an apologetic shrug. “Sorry.”

“You don’t sound it,” he muttered, giving him the cold shoulder as he turned on his heel.

Walking away, he wondered if he should block Babs from his phone. She had no business sharing anything about his life, even if they had shared a bottle of wine. If Dick knew he’d—Jason shook the thought away. Dick couldn’t know. Ever.

He’d worked hard to get here on his own two feet and not his father’s name—and she’d thrown it away for—for what?

Kent, of course, caught up to him quickly. “You changed your name. Jason Knight does have a certain ring to it.”

One of Bruce’s suggestions, when they’d actually been talking. “Go away, Kent.”

“I need to speak with you.”

“I’m guessing it’s about Bruce—so, no.”

“Please.”

“Lois know you’re here?”

A pause. “No, but it’s none of her business.”

“Why? She’s your fian—”

“Was.”

He cocked his head, curious. “What happened?”

Clark shrugged.

“She finally got a clue, after six years of engagement?”

Clark’s jaw firmed. “Listen—Jason—”

“Get lost, Kent.” Shaking his head, he slipped into the next room, hoping to lose Kent in the flux of people. It worked for a minute, as he sidestepped and hid behind one of the janitors who’d come to clean up the floor, where the roof had been leaking overnight. He huddled into the corner by four old filing cabinets, appreciative of the larger girth hiding him.

His hands fisted tightly at his sides. He could use a smoke about now. Babs berated him about his habit, but he didn’t care. His life was his own. He’d escape to the roof, but it was likely Kent would find him there. Bruce had a habit of doing the same thing when he was stressed. Emphasis on had.

When his father had told him he was leaving to join the Amish, Jason hadn’t believed him. And when he’d left, shock set in almost immediately.

His thoughts on the matter hadn’t changed. _A defense mechanism_, Babs had told him. _He was unwilling to face reality. He was hurting. He’d been abandoned. Again._

Four years. More than four years without his father. His brothers. And one brother in particular.

He was now twenty-three years old. Dick would be twenty-five. Twenty-five—and blind. And Tim would still be a kid. A vulnerable child wrapped up in his father’s pain, like his own wasn’t enough.

He closed his eyes and breathed. A second, even longer breath, and a small piece of paper was pressed into his hand.

His eyes flew open. His partner, Alice, all five-foot-one of her, stared up at him, brows meeting fiercely in the middle.

“Some guy told me to give this to you—and I should stop wearing shoes that hurt me just to look taller.”

He winced. “Kent has no tact.”

Like Bruce.

“Kent?”

He shrugs. “Family...acquaintance.”

He was no friend.

“He meant well,” she said with a quirk of her lips. “No one but you has ever noticed.”

“He’s good at his job.” Jason had learned from the best—Clark. And his father, as much as he hated to admit the best detective-turned-depressed-Amish-man was his main mentor.

“Hmm.” Her eyes dropped to his hand, and the note she’d given him that he started to unfold. “Wanna tell me what this is about?”

Tell the people he worked with about Bruce?

No one here knew about his past. He wasn’t about to change that, not even for her. “No.”

“Didn’t think so.” She turned to leave, hesitating. “We leave in a half-hour to talk to Mrs. Sanchez.”

Right. A dead lawyer’s ex-wife who has a flimsy alibi and is inheriting all his money. “I’ll be ready.”

As long as Kent did the right thing and left him alone.

He read the note, turning his back against the flux of people. Of course. Kent wasn’t taking the high road. He was as bad as Bruce.

He'd left it up to Jason.

_He needs a second opinion. Help me convince Bruce his son doesn't have to spend the rest of his life as a blind man. Meet me on the roof._

The nerve. Using Dick as leverage—and dangling a carrot—with no mention of Tim—the one person he’d actually wanted more word about because he’s just a kid—just a damn kid—

He crumpled the note.

The roof? For a little chat with Kent? The man Dad had secretly—or not-so-secretly—pined for, for years?

Hell, no.

Yes, he was pissed at Bruce.

But he was angry as fuck at Kent, who’d let his grieving father slip through his fingers with hardly a word of protest.

He threw the note in the trash, stalking back to his desk.

—***—

Ten minutes later, Clark stared out across the cityscape, musing on how much things had changed in just a few short years. They’d once been a tight family, the Waynes and Clark, their fates wrapped up in a city so cold, one would think they were in the Arctic. Greed and lust, turning into crimes unimaginable. Crooked politicians more common than not, and no one looking out for anyone but themselves. But they’d made a difference, each and every Wayne, down to the youngest.

_Damien_.

Eyes pricked the back of his eyes like thorns digging painfully into sensitive skin. Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced the tears back, except for one which trailed down his cheek.

He wiped his eyes, a sense of acute loneliness nearly crushing him. But more than that, he longed for Bruce to be here and witness Jason for himself. His most unlikely son rising up to a new challenge. He could just imagine how proud Bruce would be, even if he didn’t show it.

This certainly wasn’t New York, but at least Jason was an hour inland from the coast. If he agreed, he could get to the farm by—

The door squeaked open. Watching Bruce’s now tallest son trudging up to his side, Clark was struck speechless.

Jason’s mouth twisted into a wry grin. “Yeah, I can’t believe it, either.”

“You’ll go?”

Jason’s smile fell. “I didn’t say that.”

“It’s bad, Jason.”

“Detective Knight.”

“I held you when you fell off your bike the first time. I made you breakfast an entire month when Bruce was sick. I picked you up when you were in jail that one night. I can call you anything I’d like.”

“True.” Jason took out a pack of cigarettes and threw it up in the air, only to catch it with one hand, grinning. “But I helped you evade Bruce when you were stone drunk that one wild summer evening.”

Clark winced, recalling the night he’d drowned his sorrows—his unrequited love—in whiskey and gotten in a brawl. “Think he knows about that one?”

Jason lit a cigarette. “Depends if you think Wayne is the greatest detective or not.”

He hummed. “Point taken.”

“Nothing you can say will change my mind.”

“They need you, Jace.”

“Need?” Jason laughed, waving his hand, cigarette tucked between two fingers. “I haven’t heard from Bruce in years. If he needed me, I would have heard from him by now.”

They both knew that wasn’t true. Bruce—especially this Bruce—wouldn’t ask for help. “Yes, need,” Clark insisted, frowning. “You really shouldn’t be doing that, you know.”

Jason’s smile turned wicked. “What can I say? The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“He doesn’t smoke.” He never did but in rare—and stressful—occasions.

Jason expelled a long breath. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Not anymore he doesn’t. He’s Amish.”

“Yes. He is.”

It was still hard to imagine Bruce with his Amish beard, although he’d seen it with his own eyes.

Jason shifted his weight to the other foot, and back again.

Clark frowned. Fidgeting never looked good on the kid. “What is it, Detective?

“Did he come to a dead end, then? Had it with the farm?”

“Why would you say that?”

“Dunno,” Jason muttered, mouth tightening around the cigarette. “Weather, maybe?”

He looked at him closely, the pieces falling into place. “You’re investigating him, aren’t you?”

Jason coughs, removing the cigarette from his mouth.

Clark slapped him on the back. “Easy, Son.”

“What makes you think that?” Jason sputtered.

Clark smiled to himself. Jason may be one hell of a detective, but when it comes to family—or near family—he was an open book.

“It’s okay, you know.” He turned to the far corner of the roof, walking towards it. “I don’t blame you.”

“You don’t know a thing, Kent,” Jason bit out.

“I know a lot. For one, I know it seemed like your dad gave up too easily.”

“Like you did?”

He froze. “I—that’s not what happened.”

He’d had Lois. And he’d been swamped at work because his partner had up and quit on him, without notice.

Jason scowled. “In his darkest hour, you weren’t there for him.”

Jason never minced words, but that was a little harsh.

Clark leaned against the ledge, gripping it until his knuckles whitened. “I did what I could.”

“You mean you did what was convenient.”

“We were all stretched thin, Jace—Detective Knight,” he corrected himself.

“And look what happened.”

“I would do it over, if I could.” But even then, he’d had too much responsibility. Finding Damien’s killer. Keeping Lois’s questions at bay. Preventing his emotions from bleeding out and revealing how much he cared about Bruce. Being strong for the boys when Bruce was reduced to a shell.

He’d succeeded at all of these things, but at what cost?

“You have a chance to now.”

Clark shook his head. “He doesn’t want me.”

Jason snorted. “That’s really what you think?”

“He got married—and he’s still there, even after her death.”

“Put yourself in his shoes.”

He’d tried. Many times. “He needs peace.” And it appeared life as a simple man provided that for him. How could Clark think about taking him away from that? Even for the sake of his son?

“He needs you.”

Clark grasped his arm, reaffirming his decision to find some way—even this way—to get Bruce’s attention. “Jace,” he said softly. “And he doesn’t need you?”

Jason predictably stiffened. “Do you know what he said to me?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“He said that Dick was all that mattered.”

That can’t be right. Bruce was sometimes cold, but he would never say that. “He—he wasn’t himself.”

“He didn’t actually say that.”

Clark’s relief sank deep into his marrow, that he nearly buckled underneath it. “Oh.”

“He said nothing to me,” Jason hissed in his face. “Nothing, Kent.”

“He’d just lost his son, Jace.”

“And I lost my brother!”

Clark rarely fumbled for words, but he did now, the silence thick and unhealthy and suffocating between them.

“You always had a special connection with Damien,” Clark whispered. “I—I think sometimes, as adults, we forget these things.”

“Don’t make excuses for him.”

“I’m not trying to, Jace.”

Jason’s shoulders sagged. “We were the—the bad pennies.”

Clark’s heart squeezed. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard Jason speak of himself that way. Oh, Jace. If only his father knew how much he was hurting. How much hurt was there that Jason never let on.

He shook his head. “You were never the bad penny. Never. Your father loved—loves—you as much as Dick. And Tim. And Damien. Never doubt that.”

“He would’ve broken had I not left.”

Clark looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“I’m the one who told Damien that Dad was in danger. I’m the reason Damien left that night to warn him.”

“You didn’t tell him. He overheard.”

Jason’s eyes grew distant. “He’s dead. What difference does it make?”

“The difference? A chance for recovery,” Clark said softly.

Jason backed away. “Dick doesn’t want to recover.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Clark said. “He’s there with Bruce, to help with Tim, but not because he wants to torture himself.”

Jason’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Like the rest of us do?”

“He’s there because he sees better than the rest of us.”

“You think becoming Amish,” Jason spat, “was the only way Bruce could hold himself together?”

Clark nodded. “I do—now.”

Jason slid onto the ground, drawing his knees to his chest, the hand that held the cigarette shaking. “S-so do I,” he whispered, looking so small, so vulnerable, that Clark crouched beside him.

“Hey,” he urged softly.

Jason’s eyes were strangely wet. “Do you know how they met? Bruce—and the Amish?”

Clark paused. “No,” he said, wondering why he’d never asked his best friend. “I’m guessing you do?”

“They were out riding around—Bruce, Tim, and Dick—and the car was at the top of this steep hill in the country, in the middle of nowhere, and Bruce—” Jason laughed, sadness turning bitter. “He ran out of gas. Bruce. The man who is prepared for anything ran. Out. Of. Fucking. Gas.”

“What did he do?”

“Put the emergency break on.”

“And?”

“That was it.”

Unsettled, Clark looked straight ahead. “He didn’t call for help?”

“His phone was dead, too. Dick got out—his blind son—and waved his hands. Luckily, a half hour later someone saw them from their buggy, and two Amish men helped push the car to the side of the road. Bruce was practically catatonic the entire time and didn’t speak to either men.”

Clark ran a shaking hand through his hair. “Jesus,” he whispered.

“Until they had gotten back in their buggy. Bruce finally got his head out of his ass and thanked them. The older Amish man told him if he wanted to thank them, he’d visit his farm and have dinner.”

“That’s...unusual, isn’t it?”

Jason turned his head to look at him. “I think they saw a man who was desperate and who would have most likely crashed on the way home.”

Clark’s heart shattered. “Not on purpose.”

“No, but Bruce didn’t have the wherewithal for anything, let alone to continue driving—and Tim was crying without ever making a damn sound.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“I tried to talk to him,” Jason said, eyes down, his voice shaking. “I tried, Clark. I told him I’d watch out for Tim—and for Dick—if he needed time away. But he—he didn’t argue when the boys left with him. He said he owed it to those men to help them out. The old man’s daughter had a mind more fragile than Bruce’s.”

“He wouldn’t have done that—joined—out of obligation,” Clark said in disbelief.

“Not if he’d been in his right mind. Plus,” Jason paused, drawing a breath from his cigarette. “The old man died just two days later, in the fields while talking to Bruce. The daughter was devastated. She was going to lose the farm—she’d been recently shunned for seeing someone the community had ostracized. One of their own. How could Bruce leave her? Especially when they accused her of seducing an English man? You know he would’ve felt responsible. Done anything he could to help.” Jason stopped. “Even marry her.”

Which he obviously had.

How had he not known this?

The gravity of the situation hit him. “How—how’d you find out all of this?”

“I hired someone. Someone who knew their way around the Amish. Gotta say, Kent,” Jason snorted. “The look on your face—you’re sure you’re a detective?”

“I’ve been...preoccupied.”

“Yeah,” Jason said darkly. He got to his feet, glaring down at him. “Well, you’re not now. The question I have for you is, how far are you willing to go to help Dick get that second opinion?”

Clark rose, admittedly confused. “You’re going to talk with him?”

“Only if you agree to come with me. I can’t do this alone. No one could, not when Bruce is at his lowest.”

Clark grimaced. He was right. Bruce had hit rock bottom. He’d suffered loss—after loss—after loss—after—

Jason sighed, breaking the long silence. “You know that, or you wouldn’t have found me. My terms, Kent.”

“Agree to your terms? That’s...dangerous.”

“Are you in—or aren’t you?”

“Didn’t I come and ask you?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “Yes or no?”

Amused, Clark took a lighthearted jab at the boy who had once stolen the tires from Bruce’s antique convertible. “A chance to see Bruce’s face when his prodigal so—”

“No,” Jason growled. “Don’t say it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

—***—

Bruce packed the last of their belongings in the wagon and wiped the sweat off his dirty brow.

Tim stood beside him, holding a small stool he’d crafted himself, under Bruce’s watchful eye. He held it out, looking up at Bruce, then cradled it against his chest.

Bruce immediately understood. “You may put it under your feet, Timothy.”

Timothy’s face lit up momentarily, before he slipped away, silent as ever, to the front of the wagon.

Bruce scanned the first place he’d lived as a peaceful man. The land still spoke to him, but the farm was dead. Life here in the space he’s created for them—dead. His wife, dead. His son—

Bruce clenched his jaw—his fists—ignoring the pain that wanted a place in his heart. They’d make it, but only because he had been permitted to use his Englisch money to secure a different farm and its cattle.

Against his better judgment, he wished he could tell Clark about their hopeful future to ease his concern, but he didn’t have a phone and wouldn’t until business improved. Clark’s goodbye had been final, his tall form retreating to his car, then disappearing in the dust.

Something akin to loneliness and abandonment that had pierced his breastbone after Katie’s death came back to strike him again. Clark was gone, this second departure worse than the first. For a short time, Bruce had wanted him to return, to try to change his mind again, but it had twisted his heart into something he hadn’t recognized.

Had Jason felt like that? When his entire family had left? Bruce couldn’t remember much about that time. He likened it to sleepwalking. He only remembered the sense of peace he’d had bringing his family here, learning about the Amish, the break in the clouds. Katie’s smile—

Clark’s chiseled face. The intelligence he tried to hide. The jokes he told to get Bruce’s attention.

Jason’s utter disappointment in him when he accepted Dick’s condition without trying to fix it.

His heart pounded in his chest, guilt thrumming through his blood, his thoughts racing faster than he could keep up. Jason. Tim. Dick. Clark. Clark’s visit. He didn’t know what to think of it. Clark had seemed resolute in his coming—and his leaving had been just as determined.

He had gotten what he wanted—solitude—but at a cost. Again.

He bowed his head, lips moving silently in prayer.

“Daed?”

Bruce slowly raised his head. Dick made his way to him with his cane with a startling ease and it was if, for one moment, all was as it should be. Normal.

He moved towards him. “Yah?”

“Do you ever think—about Dawdy?”

He stumbled to a careening stop. If there was a word to describe the way he felt his face leech of color, he would’ve used it.

“I—we agreed, Richard, to never speak of him.”

“You mean you agreed,” Dick pointed out correctly. “What about Timothy? When he speaks again, he will ask about him.”

Bruce stood still. When Tim spoke again? He wasn’t sure that would ever happen. Time didn’t heal. “Dawdy—moved on.”

“That’s it?” Dick exclaimed, face pained.

He doubted Alfred would ever forgive him. Jason might, someday. But the old man? He couldn’t imagine it. “Ya,” he said softly.

Dick lifted his chin, reminding him of his son, determined rookie. “Mer sott em sei Eegne net verlosse. Gott verlosst die Seine nicht.”

Bruce’s lips curled up into a snarl and, for a brief second, he was grateful, desperately and erroneously grateful, that Richard could not see it. “Dawdy is not Amish.”

“And neither are you,” said another voice, deep and strong, from behind Dick. A stranger’s.

Bruce’s heart caught in his throat.

_Not a stranger._

“Jason?”

—***—

In an effort to remain level-headed in his decision, Jason made Clark stay in the car. He couldn’t take the chance that Clark would change his mind, or be swayed by Bruce’s unwillingness.

But, as he watched Bruce stare back at him, stupefied, and continue to do so, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. Dick turned around and stumbled into a shocked Bruce. He walked towards him at the same time that Tim jumped out of the wagon, running up at him faster than his short legs should allow him to—

And still, Bruce couldn’t move. Jason saw it in his eyes, when the awareness slipped away and the mask slipped over his face. The horror that flickered in his father’s eyes was telling, and although he knew Bruce wasn’t horrified to see him—but recalling the murder of his youngest son—he couldn’t help but feel a prick of hurt.

“Aw, shit,” he breathed out just as Tim reached him.

Tim buried his head into Jason’s stomach, thin arms wrapping around his waist and squeezing.

“Hey, kiddo,” Jason grunted, returning his embrace with gusto. He closed his eyes, breathing in the bittersweet moment.

Tim didn’t make a sound, but his enthusiasm overwhelmed him. He couldn’t remember anyone being so happy to see him.

“Y-you’re here,” Dick whispered, reaching out hesitantly with one hand.

Jason nodded, forgetting that he couldn’t see it. “Yeah.”

Dick’s hand brushed the top of Tim’s head, before finding Jason’s shoulder. A sound close to a whimper escaped Dick’s throat, and he leaned forward, digging his fingers into Jason’s collarbone. Jason leaned forward as well and touched Dick’s forehead against his own. He slipped one hand from Tim’s back to wrap it around Dick—and held them both.

His brothers.

It felt better than he ever imagined. Damn Bruce for taking them away from him.

“Why did you come back?” Dick asked.

“To talk some sense into your old man. To take you to the city for another opinion.”

“Oh,” Dick said, shaking slightly in his arms. “I—but—we’re doing fine. We are gut.”

Jason begged to differ.

He lifted his head and stared at Bruce, who was looking forward, but straight through Dick. Straight through Tim. Through Jason.

Tim wriggled out from Jason’s hold. Dick straightened to let him out from between them.

“Let me be the judge of that,” Jason said quietly, giving Tim a half smile, which Tim didn’t return.

The young boy’s eyes were wide and hopeful, breaking Jason’s heart.

But Dick stilled. “I’m not—helpless, Jay.”

Tim tugged at Jason’s hand, as if to pull him towards Bruce.

Jason stood firm, glancing between his father, whose eyes were blank, and his older brother. He felt like the adult—the only adult—between the three of them. For Tim, he could see, had not aged beyond the day Damien had been killed.

Tim may be twelve now—but his expressions, his mannerisms—everything was stunted.

“I know you’re not.” Jason took Tim’s hand. “I know Bruce isn’t, either, although it doesn’t look promising, right now.”

“Daed,” Dick murmured. He frowned and turned his neck, speaking to Bruce.

Jason listened, picking up a few words that Dick said. But only a few. Of course he didn't use English, but spoke to their father, as if having a private conversation, in their own dialect.

Still, Bruce was silent.

Bruce hadn’t moved an inch.

Bruce resembled a wounded soldier, caught between the past and present, and lost in both.

Finally, Dick stopped mid-sentence. “Jace?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he—is he—like... before?”

In shock? Suffering from post-traumatic stress? A damaged man?

“Yes,” Jason said softly, promising them all he would find a way to unite them again.

The brothers needed no further instruction. Tim let go. Dick stepped back.

And Jason started towards his father.

—***—

For Bruce, the next hour passed by as if in a dream. And the hour after that—sitting in the passenger seat and next to Jason, his assertive son, who drove like he remembered, like a bat out of hell—it was...indescribable.

“I know you’re leaving everything again,” Jason murmured. “I imagine it's...difficult.”

Without proper discussion with the elders, it was inconceivable. “You spoke with the bishop. You spoke to—”

“—to the bishop,” Jason echoed, giving a short laugh. “Behind your back.”

Bruce glanced at him, frowning.

Jason looked straight ahead. “I’m not sorry.”

He couldn’t believe he went behind his back before coming to the farm. “Jason.”

“Bruce.”

“Jason,” he said sharply.

Jason’s eyes flickered over his face. “If we’d given you even an inch, Bruce, you would’ve backed out. Besides, you're allowed to go back after the surgery. No harm, no foul.”

Bruce grunted and leaned his head against the window, tempted to close his eyes and sleep like Clark, Dick and Tim were in the back seat. “Mind the road, Jason.”

“If you really don’t want to bunk with Clark, you’ll have to stay with me.”

Bruce gritted his teeth before forcing them to unclench. “The boys can stay with you. I’ll find a hotel.”

Jason sighed. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

He closed his eyes, wrestling with his traitorous thoughts. Clark's place sounded comforting, a fact he wished he could deny. But if he stayed there, it would complicate...everything. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Mer sott em sei Eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die Seine nicht.---One should not abandon one's own; God does not abandon his own.
> 
> Dawdy—grandfather
> 
> Spoiler: the next part to this series will be a little angstier. And I’m really looking forward to writing and sharing it, but I’m not sure when that will be. :)


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